


Reasonable Doubt

by Orlissa



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grant Ward Redemption, Grant is back with the team after the hydra reveal, Redemption, Somewhat Humorous, and Grant gives a reason for it, but Coulson has his doubts, s2 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6891958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orlissa/pseuds/Orlissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Phil Coulson was a firm believer of second chances – how could he have denied that from anybody, when he himself got a second shot at life? –, but he was no fool, and in his book, a second chance meant exactly what its name suggested: not a completely clean slate, but a chance at showing that the person was willing to correct his past mistakes (with the right precautionary measures in place, of course). So yes, he really did believe that people were meant to be given a chance to get things right.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>But Grant Ward was pushing it.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Although Coulson gave him a second chance, some of Ward's recent actions - undeclared trips from the base, money moved around - gives him a reason to think that he made a mistake. So he decides to confront Ward about it, but he finds is really not what he expected.</p><p>Now continued, because my plot bunnies wouldn't leave me alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reasonable Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of gathering up my willpower to watch the finale (although I’ve read some spoilers), I decided to finish this story, which have been tormenting me for over a week. I think I have made the right choice.

Phil Coulson was a firm believer of second chances – how could he have denied that from anybody, when he himself got a second shot at _life_? –, but he was no fool, and in his book, a second chance meant exactly what its name suggested: not a completely clean slate, but a chance at showing that the person was willing to correct his past mistakes (with the right precautionary measures in place, of course). So yes, he really did believe that people were meant to be given a chance to get things right.

But Grant Ward was pushing it.

It was not an easy decision to make to let him back after the HYDRA reveal, and Coulson still had his reservations about it, but ultimately it felt like the right thing to do. Ward was not only a high-value asset he would have loathed to lose during these difficult times, but he had also come from an impossible situation (who could have said what he would have done without John Garrett’s influence?) and seemed genuine about his desire to be reintegrated into the team. And even if his loyalties had more to do with his feelings towards Skye than with his beliefs about the ideology S.H.I.E.L.D. represented, Coulson was desperate enough to take it.

There were, of course, conditions and sanctions about his reinstatement – his access to classified information and certain parts of the base was severely limited, he was closely monitored, and he was obliged to see a therapist. And, up until recently, he did everything to the dot - every, very detailed, report submitted on time, not one therapy session missed, no misconduct caught, not a toe out of line, so Coulson had started loosening his reigns up a little. Which, in retrospect, might have been a mistake.

Even if Coulson was slowly granting him more and more freedom, he still kept a close eye on Ward, and this surveillance had brought up a couple of disturbing things in the last couple of weeks: money moved around from his main account to one on the name of one of Ward’s lesser known aliases – channeled through shell companies, until it was almost untraceable, and always in smaller amounts, not to draw attention, totaling at around thirty thousand dollars. And this came with undeclared trips from the base, the GPS turned off, and nobody knowing where he had gone.

“I’m his girlfriend, not his handler,” was Skye exact, completely unconcerned, and slightly irritated answer when Coulson had asked her if she knew where Ward was one time he had been unaccounted for. She wasn’t only the first and strongest advocate of giving Ward a chance to redeem himself, but she also didn’t make a secret of thinking that Coulson was sometimes unjustly hard on him. “He has a lot of stuff to work through,” she added in a somewhat softer tone. “I’m just giving him space to do that. You should do the same.”

And he tried, he really did, but there were things that, as the head of S.H.I.E.L.D., he just couldn’t turn a blind eye on. And although nothing really alarming had happened yet – what Ward had been doing could have been all part of a simple contingency plan, they were spies, after all –, Coulson had decided that this was the point when it had to come to an end; it was time to confront Ward all about it.

That’s how he ended up on the top of the stairs leading to his office minutes after seeing the SUV Ward had taken a couple of hours before roll into the garage on the surveillance cameras, waiting for the younger man to enter the common area. When he did, Coulson watched him like a hawk for a couple of seconds, being aware, now maybe more than ever, of every single move he made, every single twitch of his face as Ward entered his line of vision, yet unaware of being watched. He seemed relaxed, and there was a certain kind of confidence in his steps – one that Coulson had come to realize in the past months usually veiled his anxieties. But his smile seemed genuine and carefree as he greeted Fitz at the kitchen counter, crossing over to him and patting the younger man on the shoulder. Coulson saw him open his mouth to say something to the scientist, but he didn’t let Ward actually get it out.

“Ward,” he said curtly, his voice echoing in the open space. Both men below stopped and looked up at him. “My office, now.”

Ward and Fitz exchanged a confused look, and the former shrugged – signaling to Fitz that he had no idea what was going on –, then turned around and started for the stairs without a word.

Coulson didn’t wait for him; he went ahead, and was already seated behind his desk by the time Ward stepped into the office. His body language, the air around him was already different as he stood in front of the desk, Coulson noted – back straight, shoulders back, face an unreadable mask, but somehow carrying a hint of hostility. Gone was the man he had seen downstairs to give space to the soldier, waiting for orders.

“Yes, sir?”

Suddenly, Coulson didn’t know how to start.

The clock on the wall ticked three times, and neither of the men moved; then Coulson made up his mind, cleared his throat, and reached for one of the manila folders littering his desk. He opened it and pulled out a single sheet of paper – the one listing the dates when Ward had left the base in the past three months or so, the occasions he had done so without telling anyone where he was going highlighted.

“Twenty-first of February. Second of March. Tenth of March,” he read out the dates without any commentary. But he didn’t even need to add anything – he could see it on Ward’s tightening face that he knew what he was talking about. Coulson leaned back in his seat, never taking his eyes off the other man. “And today.”

Ward swallowed.

“I was off the base on these days,” he stated simply.

“I am aware of that,” Coulson nodded. “But what I am not aware of is where you went.”

Ward shifted, straightening his shoulders even more.

“Last time I checked,” he started, his tone tense, his words clipped, “I was not obliged to declare where I was going as long as I wasn’t part in an active op and didn’t plan on staying away more than twelve hours.”

Technically, that was true; that was the policy Coulson demanded from his agents, and in the recent weeks he had extended this courtesy to Ward as well as a sign of goodwill. Now, he didn’t like it being thrown back at his face.

“And yet,” Coulson continued, his voice rising slightly, “all the other agents don’t feel the need to disable the GPS in their cars when they do so.”

He could see Ward’s hands tighten into fists.

“Where I went, and what I did then is no concern of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he said with a somewhat defensive edge in his voice.

“Everything you do is of concern of S.H.I.E.L.D.!” Coulson snapped, then took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “After what went down last year – after what went down in the last seventy years – everything our agents do is of concern of S.H.I.E.L.D.” He pulled another sheet from the folder. “Especially when what they do is as unnerving as it is.” He turned the paper around, so Ward could see it, and read the list of transactions on it. “What would you need thirty thousand untraceable dollars for, Ward?”

The specialist leaned forward, his eyes scanning the document, then he let out a dark chuckle.

“This is really classy of you, Coulson, spying on me like that.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Coulson could feel his muscles tightening, his heartrate spiking; he was losing his patience.

“It’s my personal business. You, or S.H.I.E.L.D., have nothing to do with it,” he stated with unnerving detachment.

“The hell I don’t!” Coulson snapped once again. “Everything my agents do–“

“I don’t think I gave you _any_ reason to doubt me,” Ward cut in, not letting him finish the sentence, his own voice rising as he took half a step towards the desk, “to dig into my personal business like that–“

“Here is my reason!” Coulson jumped from his seat, threw the papers down in front of Ward, then banged his fist on the desktop. “Here is my damn reason! Undeclared trips out of the base, money moved around… With your history, Ward, this is more than enough for me to doubt! You don’t realize what a fine line you are walking,” he continued, near yelling, although he could see Ward’s pupils dilate in what he took as fear. “I gave you a second chance, but I can take it back just as easily – just give me a reason. Give me a reason – play me, act behind my back, keep secrets from me, and I’ll have you shackles in a minute. I don’t care what you say, I don’t care if it’s your _personal business_ – you know what? You don’t get to have that! For all I know you could be using this money to-to…  buy a bomb or hire an assassin. So here it is, Ward: you have thirty seconds to come clean, or you can say goodbye to all of this, because, mark my words, I’ll make you never see daylight again.”

For a moment, the whole room seemed to freeze. Neither man moved, only stared at each other, Coulson’s nostrils flaring, Ward’s eyes wide, his face a wooden mask. And then he moved, reaching under his jacket – Coulson stiffened for a moment, his hand twitching towards the desk drawer where he kept a gun –, and pulled out something small and black from his inner pocket what he then threw on Coulson’s desk. Then, letting out a deep sigh, Ward collapsed into one of the chairs in front of the desk, and hid his face in his hand.

Coulson looked at the object on his desk in confusion – it was a small, velvet drawstring bag, the material bearing the logo and name of some store in silver cursive on one side. Slowly, carefully, he reached for it and opened the mouth of the bag, then shook its content into his palm – a ring box.

“The receipt should be there, too,” he heard Ward’s voice, soft and muffled by his hand, sounding almost broken, the previous tension gone. “The address and the time of the purchase are there, so you can check on their surveillance cams that I was really there. Last week, too, for more than an hour – I can tell you when exactly. The other two times? Two other stores. I didn’t find there what I wanted, but I can give you the times and the addresses, so you can check those too.”

With almost trembling hands, Coulson opened the box – inside an oval-shaped diamond glimmered on a delicate, platinum band, sided by two smaller, light blue stones. He had to admit, it was an absolutely breathtaking ring.

“Why did you go to this store twice?” he asked calmly as he sat back down, still holding the open ring box in one hand.

“I choose the ring last week. I had it engraved. It took a couple of days,” Ward answered, still without raising his head.

“And the money?” Coulson asked, resisting the temptation to check the engraving.

“Call me a paranoiac,” Ward scoffed, “but I didn’t want HYDRA to somehow find out that Grant Ward bought an engagement ring. So I bought it under a name they don’t know about.”

“The GPS?”

“I didn’t want Skye accidentally stumble upon where I went.”

Coulson turned the box around in his hand, then gently closed the lid.

“So…” he sighed and leaned back in his chair, letting his mouth curl a small smile, “you are going to propose?” he asked instead of demanding to know why Ward hadn’t just come forward with it the first time he asked about his mystery trips.

Ward raised his head at last, the look in his eyes softer, the corners of his mouth twitching

“That’s the plan,” he said, then sat up straight, as if he thought it required further explanation. “And before you say that I’m rushing things, or that I’m being foolish, sir, I want you to know that I have been talking about this with my therapist, and you can ask him—“

“I’m not saying those,” Coulson interrupted him, finally putting the ring box down. “I’m… When?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When are you going to…?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ward shook his head. “Neither the when or the how. Right now, I’m just taking things step-by-step. I have the ring now, so… I guess I can start thinking about the next stage.”

Coulson smiled at the younger man; to his slight surprise, Ward returned it.

“You know,” Coulson started as he slipped the ring box back into the drawstring bag and slid it back towards Ward, “I know a really nice restaurant in town. If you decide to go the classic route – dinner, candlelight…”

Ward reached for the bag and put it back into his inner jacket pocket.

“Thank you. I’ll… think about it.” He sat back, waiting.

“Now, if there’s nothing else…”

“No, nothing.”

“Then you may leave, Agent Ward,” Coulson nodded.

“Thank you, sir,” he answered, getting up from his chair and starting for the door, but before he could have reached it, Coulson spoke again.

“And Grant?” He waited until Ward turned back towards him. “Good luck!”

Ward blinked once, then smiled, nodded in acknowledgement, and left the room, closing the door gently behind himself.

Coulson waited for a couple of seconds, then got out of his own chair and walked over to the window. Once, what felt like a lifetime ago, he had told Grant Ward that people could be saved from themselves if you reach them soon enough, and he just started to realized how true those words had been. True, Ward wasn’t his save – he wouldn’t take credit for that –, but he would have liked to think that he had just a small, miniscule part in helping him find his path. One that he hoped would be long and happy, and one that he would take with Skye by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually checked it, and a Tiffany’s ring really starts from about 30K. Ouch.


	2. Cat Out of the Bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plot bunnies have run wild, so this story is getting a continuation. My current plan is three extra chapters that might stretch into four (I have an outline for nine scenes, and the number of chapters will depend on how long each scene turns out to be and where can I find a natural breaking point to divide them up), which I sincerely hope to be able to finish in May. I hope you’ll enjoy them :)

Fitz was doing his best to concentrate on the schematics of the new cloaking device he was working on–it had a lag he wanted to get rid of–, but he was simply unable to, because he was hungry. And worried. Well, to be honestly, being worried always made him peckish, so it was really cause-effect kind of thing, but it didn’t change the fact that he was going nowhere with his design.

He just didn’t like the way Coulson had ordered Ward into his office. Yeah, sure, Ward used to be HYDRA–kind of–, but that was water under a distant bridge. And it wasn’t like it was all his fault–it was all on Garrett–, and he had also made it pretty clear in the past months that he was loyal to the team and that he could be trusted. So, as far as Fitz was concerned, that couple of months of spying on them and all had been all forgiven and forgotten. Friends had each other’s back, after all.

So what must have went down in Coulson’s office after the director had called in Ward–Fitz quickly glanced at the clock on the computer screen–about twenty minutes ago was really making him worried, and thus hungry, and thus distrait, and thus completely unable to work. (He wished for those long-gone simpler times, when his biggest problem was that Jemma was dissecting a cat right next to his lunch.)

But he couldn’t ponder on it for much longer, because then, like the force of nature she was, Skye all but stormed into the lab.

“Hey, Fitz, have you seen Jemma?” she asked, crossing over to him and perching on the edge of his work station–while munching on what looked like the remnants of a bear claw. “She said she wanted me to take a look at her tablet–something about it not connecting properly to the central database?”

Fitz swallowed–that bear claw really looked delicious–, and shook his head. “Haven’t seen her since lunch. Have you checked the– Oh, Ward!” he perked up as he saw the specialist enter the room as well.

“Hi guys,” Ward greeted him with a nod, then stood behind Skye, wrapped his arms around her middle, and planted a kiss on the top of her head. No matter how many times Fitz saw them do this, it still astonished him sometimes how Grant, who had once cringed at being touched, turned out to be near addicted to physical affection, at least as far as Skye was concerned. It was as if he needed to touch her somehow whenever she was within reach. “I missed you,” Ward added, addressing his words to Skye as he rested his chin on the top of her head.

“Me too. Want a bite?” She lifted her pastry to his mouth, and he obediently took a bite from it, making Fitz avert his gaze from them, picking up some random object from his desk just to do something with his hands. Skye and Ward could be sickeningly, embarrassingly sweet sometimes, to the point when it was uncomfortable to watch (also, it wasn’t fair that everybody was eating but him).

“Anyway,” Fitz cut in after a moment (after almost dropping the screwdriver he picked up to the floor), clearing his throat, “what did Coulson want?” He saw Grant’s eyes flash in alarm, but too late. “Is everything okay?”

Skye’s whole body stiffened, then she tried to turn around in Ward’s arms to look at him, but he kept her in place, so all she could do was to crane her neck to try to meet his eyes.

“Coulson wanted to talk to you? Why?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

“It’s nothing,” Grant tried to reassure her, his thumbs drawing small circles on the back of hand in a calming gesture. “It was just a misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you really sure?” Fitz quipped in, unable to contain himself. “Because Coulson seemed pretty mad to me–the last time I’ve seen him that mad–“

“It was nothing,” Grant interrupted him, his eyes flashing again, silently begging him to _shut up_. “We talked it through, everything is okay now,” he insisted, and yet Fitz had a strange feeling that everything wasn’t, in fact, okay.

“Babe,” Skye extracted herself from Ward’s arms at last, turning around to face him, “if Coulson is being hard on you, I can…”

Grant leaned in and pressed a kiss against her lips (Fitz, once again, tried not to look), effectively silencing her.

“He is not,” Ward promised her. “He was actually… rather understanding. So you have nothing to worry about.”

Skye held his gaze for a moment or two, not blinking, maybe unconsciously–or consciously–trying to mimic May’s signature gaze, the one that made you spill even your deepest secrets. But then when Grant didn’t even blink, she gave in after a while.

“Alright,” she sighed, “but I’ll still wanna talk to Coulson–just to hear his side of things. I mean,” she groaned, closing her eyes for a moment, “right after I saw what Jemma’s problem is. And she should be…” she let the end of the sentence hang, turning towards Fitz.

“At the archives,” he answered, not missing his cue, referring to the hidden room where the hardcopies of the old S.S.R. files lay stacked in boxes.

“At the archives,” Skye repeated. “Thank you. And you…” she turned back to Grant, putting her arms around his neck. “See you later, stud.” then, after a quick kiss, she was gone, leaving the two boys alone in the lab.

Fitz watched her go through the glass walls of the lab for a moment, then, when he thought that Skye was definitely out of earshot, he turned to Ward, and, barely keeping himself from smacking his friend on the arm, he hissed, “What the hell was that?”

“What?” Grant asked, not exactly irritated, but maybe slightly defensive.

“What, what? That…” He raised his hands up next to his eyes, and made little “shockwave” movements with his fingers. “That eye thing. It was as if you wanted to silence me with your Jedi powers.”

The corners of Grant’s mouth actually twitched at this. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?” he asked, to which Fitz snorted (well, it _did_ kinda of work).

“That’s beside the point,” he said, then lowered his voice and added in an incredulous tone, “Were you _lying_ to her?”

To be honest, Fitz couldn’t decide which the scarier prospect was: Grant lying to Skye, or Grant _having a reason_ to lie to Skye.

“No, of course not. Well, not exactly. It’s… ugh…” Ward closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he opened his eyes again and looked around the lab to make sure that it was really just the two of them there. “Alright, there is this thing–“

“Are you in trouble with Coulson?” Fitz cut in. “Because of you are, then–“

“I’m not,” Ward interrupted the scientist mid-sentence. “It really was a misunderstanding, and once we cleared that, Coulson was actually rather supportive. It’s just…” He took a step forward, to which, in spite of himself, Fitz responded with half a step backwards. “Okay, I’ll tell you something, but at first you’ll have to promise me that it won’t leave the room.”

“Are you sure everything is–“

“Fitz. Promise me.”

“Alright, alright! I promise. Now what’s the… oh.” He didn’t get to finish the sentence, because the next moment Grant pulled out a ring box from the inner pocket of his jacked, popped the lid, and held it in front of him, so Fitz could see the engagement ring nested inside. “Oh!”

“Yeah,” Grant nodded with a ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth, then quickly closed the box and put it away.

“It’s for Skye?” Fitz asked, although he could hear how stupid it sounded the moment the words left his mouth.

“No, it’s for Victoria Hand,” Grant snickered. “Of course it’s for Skye.”

“Of course,” Fitz echoed, nodding and trying to forget his momentary lapse in intellect. “It’s absolutely self-evident.”

“You are only the second person–after Coulson–who knows about this ring, so Fitz, really not a word to anybody. And even Coulson only knows about it because he thought… I don’t know, that I was selling S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secrets on the black market when I was actually out ring-shopping. But we talked it through, and he actually tried to give me some tips on how I should propose, so it’s all good. But you can see now why I don’t want Skye to dig into my visit to Coulson’s office.”

Fitz frowned, one detail particularly sticking with him. “You don’t know how to propose?”

It might have been just him, but in Fitz’s mind, one just didn’t go around buying engagement rings without knowing exactly how and where and when they were supposed to pop the question. That was like getting the materials for a gadget he didn’t have the schematics for yet.

“No,” Grant admitted after a moment’s pause. “Not yet. I’m working on it. I just don’t want to mess it up,” he added quietly.

Fitz was just about to reassure him that he won’t–that he could stumble upon his words and fall into a puddle and drop the ring, and Skye would be still completely touched and would say yes right away (not that Fitz could imagine Ward dropping the ring. Or anything, for that matter)–, but then something occurred to him.

“And what are you going to do with it until that?”

Grant furrowed his brows.

“Do with what until when?”

“The ring!” Fitz hissed somewhat loudly, then quickly looked around, in case Skye had returned in the meantime. When the coast appeared to be clear, he lowered his voice and continued, “What are you going to do with the ring until you figure out how to propose? Stuck it in your sock drawer? In the room you share with Skye?”

Grant seemed to ponder on it for a second. “Good point,” he said at last, then pulled the ring box out again and thrust it into Fitz’s hand. “Would you hold onto it until then, please?”

Fitz was just about to stutter out why it was a terrible idea–he really didn’t want to be the person who lost Skye’s engagement ring, to be honest (he didn’t have the best track record with small objects), not to mention that he had his doubts if he could look Skye in the eye while hiding her ring in his pocket–or toolbox; or wherever–and not blurt out Grant’s big plans to her. Only Ward didn’t even give him a chance to say no, because the next moment–the ring securely in Fitz’s hand–he was already turning around, on his way out of the lab.

“Thank you, Fitz!” he called back. “Now I’ll better go, find Coulson and talk to him, get our stories straight before Skye finds him first. See you later!” And with that, he was already gone.

Fitz stood there for a moment longer, staring after him while turning the velvet box around in his hand, then he sighed, and, letting his shoulders fall forward, slipped the box into the pocket of his lab coat. Then, his decision made–he just couldn’t focus on his work hungry–he ventured out of the lab to get himself a sandwich, while muttering under his breath, “After this, he’d better make me his best man.”

***

Jemma was… rightfully irritated (some might even say _grumpy_ ): it wasn’t enough that she spent three hours trying to dig up an old S.S.R. file she hadn’t even managed to locate, and Skye told her she’d have to reinstall her tablet completely to make it work properly, so she couldn’t have it back until the next day (what was the deal with that, anyway? Skye could hack the _NSA_ in an hour, why couldn’t she fix her tablet in like five minutes?), now she found the lab in complete disarray that just screamed _Fitz_. His tools were strewn all around his workbench next to a half-eaten sandwich and messy sheets of schematics, and his lab coat lay thrown haphazardly over the armrest of his chair, while Fitz himself was nowhere in sight.

Grumbling to herself, she stepped to her partner’s workstation, and–in a manner that Skye’d have called _mother hen_ –started tidying up, putting the tools into their boxes, arranging the sheets of paper into a neat pile, and laying the lab coat on the back of the chair, smoothing out the wrinkles. Only, as she lifted the garment, something fell out of its pocket, hitting the floor with a small thud. Frowning, she bent down to pick it up–and then her heart skipped a beat.

Exactly the same moment as Fitz reentered the lab and his eyes locked on her.

“Jemma, no!” he hissed, and, quickening his steps, rushed to her, but it was too late–heart hammering inside of her chest, Jemma’s fingers had already wrapped around the small, velvet box.

“Fitz, what the–“

“It’s for Ward,” Fitz cut in before she could have finished the sentence, diving for the ring box, only Jemma stepped sideways, not letting him take it.

“What?” she asked with growing confusion.

“I mean, it’s for Skye,” Fitz corrected himself, but when still all he could see in Jemma’s gaze was confusion, he closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and tried again. “I mean,” he started, slower this time, “Ward bought it, for Skye, and he asked me to hold onto it for him for a while.”

 _Oh_ , Jemma thought, _that makes more sense_. The anxious–and, to be honest, not too pleasant–tightness in her chest lessened, just to be quickly replaced by another kind of excitement. “So he is going to propose?” she asked, her voice going higher than she would have liked to admit.

“Well, every piece of evidence is point to that direction,” Fitz answered with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Why did people need verbal validation of this? (Not that he hadn’t asked the obvious when Grant had shown _him_ the ring, but that was beside the point.) “But it’s top secret right now, alright?”

“Of course,” Jemma nodded, lowering her voice a little, as Fitz, taking advantage of her momentary lapse in attention, snatched the ring from her hand, and stuffed it into the bottom drawer of his toolbox (which was a shame, because Jemma really wanted to sneak a peek at the ring). “Who knows about it?”

“Me, now you, Ward, obviously, and Coulson.”

“Coulson?”

“Long story,” Fitz dismissed it with a wave. “Anyway, I guess it’s already more people knowing about it than Ward would have liked, so let’s keep it between us–we really can’t have Skye figuring it out before… well, you know,” he said, although a little voice kept saying in his head that something can only be kept a secret if only two people know about it and one of them is dead.

“I absolutely agree,” Jemma replied evenly, even though she appeared to have a problem with keeping the wide smile on her face under control. “And… when it is going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Fitz shrugged.

“No? Then who knows?”

“Nobody. Ward hasn’t figured it out yet,” he said, turning towards his work bench, hoping Jemma will take it as a sign that they should close this topic.

But Jemma just went on, “Well, then tell him to figure it out soon, because I’ll need to know the date,” she stated as she walked over to her own work station, almost as if she was talking about some chemical formula, and completely as if it was self-evident.

Fitz raised his eyebrows at her. “Why?”

“Because,” Jemma said, giving him a look that was almost _pitying_ , “somebody will have to get Skye ready for the occasion. You know, organize a spa day or something. Strictly in a subtle way, of course.”

Fitz pinched the bridge of his nose, then reached for his schematics. Knowing Jemma Simmons’s way of being _subtle_ , the four of them keeping the impending proposal a secret from Skye until its day seemed just about impossible.

(Hell, at this point he’d write it off as a success if they could hold out until the end of the day.)


	3. Spies Can't Keep a Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the next chapter, guys :) And the (good?) news is that now I can surely say that this story will be five chapters long in total. So… stay tuned for the last two, and please, enjoy this chapter :)

There are days when you wake up and simply feel that a disaster is just waiting to happen in the coming hours.

For Grant, the next day felt exactly like that.

Alright, to be honest, it didn’t start out _that_ bad–he actually managed to coax Skye out of bed at a decent hour, early enough that they could go a couple of rounds on the gym mats before the others woke up (she didn’t even complain about it, at least not after they topped the workout with a _different_ kind of round in the showers afterwards), and he did all this without giving her the slightest sign that he was up to something. No, the problems started at breakfast.

He knew he was in trouble the moment Jemma stepped into the common area just as he was turning on the coffee machine. It was simply written on her face. Almost as if a switch was turned inside of her, the second her eyes fell on the two of them, she perked up, morning grogginess forgotten, the corner of her mouth twitching as she tried to fight down a grin.

_She knew it._ He didn’t know from where (although he didn’t need to be a _rocket scientist_ to figure it out), but Grant knew that Jemma knew everything–she knew about the ring, about his plans, about what was going to happen (sooner or later; the moment he figured out how to do it).

Which, in itself, wasn’t a problem. It only meant, based on what he’d seen so far, that he had another person in his corner, something he was grateful for. But the fact that Jemma was about the most fidgety, most nervous, and least subtle person he knew simply screamed trouble.

But to give her credit, at least she _tried._

“Good morning!” Jemma greeted them in a sing-song voice, her words having a lilt that felt terribly false to his ears. “Isn’t this simply a _beautiful_ day, Ward?” she continued as she walked to the counter, pulled a box of cereal and a bowl from the shelf, and _winked at him_.

“Sure,” he answered curtly (and no, it wasn’t a beautiful day; it was cloudy with a promise of storm and maybe even hail, so the exact opposite of beautiful) as he glanced at Skye, who, thankfully, was engrossed in her tablet, reading the news. “Good morning, by the way.”

“Yeah, good morning, Jemma,” Skye joined in a little late, not even raising her eyes from the screen. “Huh… Apparently someone has made penis-shaped lipsticks,” she snickered, and Grant let out a silent, relieved sigh–apparently, she hadn’t caught on the strange exchange. He was saved. At least for now. “What would you say if I used one like that?” she asked, looking up from the tablet and innocently fluttering her lashes at Grant.

“It depends–what color?” Were they just the two of them, he would have had a different answer for her–a much raunchier one–, but he tried to be considerate to Jemma. Not that the scientist seemed to care even a little bit.

“So, Skye,” Jemma started as she took a seat opposite of Skye at the table and poured milk over her cereal. Grant watched her warily from the corner of his eyes as he picked his toast from the toaster, ready to intervene if he needed to. “I was thinking…” she went on, her voice still awfully false with forced nonchalance. “Don’t you think we are due for a girls’ day?”

Skye locked the screen of her tablet, pushed it away, and cocked an eyebrow at Jemma.

“What do you have on your mind exactly?”

“Oh, well, you know,” she flipped her hair in a way that was just _so not natural_ that it made Grant cringe, “go to a spa, get our hair and nails done… That kind of stuff…”

Skye examined the end of her still slightly shower-damp hair, looking for split ends, then shrugged.

“I’m still good on hair,” she said, “and honestly, if you want a girls’ night, I’m more into some chick flick at the movies and drinks.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.” Grant had to hand it to Jemma, it was actually a nice save. Taking his plate with the buttered toast to the table, he sat down next to Skye, and observed Jemma’s attempts from there. “And I say we _really_ deserve a little pampering.”

“Oh, believe me,” Skye replied with a wicked smirk he knew all too well, placing a hand on his knee, “I’m plenty pampered.” He gave her a tiny smile–he appreciated being appreciated, even if it was in a not so innocent way–, biting into his toast, then Skye turned back to Jemma. “But why are you so into doing this all so suddenly… Oh!” Skye’s eyes went wide, and she leaned a bit forward in her seat. “Is this about Fitz?”

(What was this with women and their keen interest in others’ love life?)

Jemma shook her head, clearly confused.

“How would Fitz come to this?”

“Well…” Skye started, taking it down a notch, just as the coffee finally started to drip. “I just thought you’re planning something for him–you know, something… intimate–and you need moral support,” she shrugged, to which Jemma answered with an awkward little laugh.

“What would I… _Oh!”_ she finally put two and two together, and shook her head. “No, not at all. Not even close. Really. Why would you even… hah!” she stuttered, her cheeks getting a pinkish hue. (Alright, as awkward and embarrassing it was, Grant had to admit that–as long as Jemma didn’t give away his proposal plans accidentally–it was rather entertaining to watch.) “No, all I am saying is that we need, as already mentioned, a little pampering. By professionals. Not that kind of professionals!” she added quickly when she saw the corner of Skye’s mouth twitch, ready to make a remark. “Manicures, we need manicures. And the like. To make us pretty. Don’t we, Ward?” she turned towards Grant.

“I know a tricky question when I see it,” he replied, standing up to fix them some coffee, “so I am going to pass on answering this one.” He poured coffee into three mugs, added milk and sugar, and glanced back at Skye in the process. “But just to make it clear–and to avoid any further accusations,” he added in a slightly teasing tone, “you are absolutely breathtaking. I rest my case,” he said, placing the girls’ coffees in front of them.

“Right back at you,” Skye said, then took a sip of her coffee and let out a little, appreciative moan. “And you are also perfectly trained,” she went on, placing her mug down and licking her lips (he might have wanted to contradict her on that last point, but he just prepared her a cup of coffee just the way she liked it, without being asked to, so she might have had a point). “Anyway,” she said, standing up, “I still have to finish installing your tablet–but I swear you’ll have it back in an hour,” she addressed her words to Jemma, “and then I have a report to write for Coulson, which he actually asked for yesterday, so… I’d better get started on it,” she shrugged with an impish smile, then stepped to Grant, who went back to leaning against the counter while he sipped his coffee, and gave him a quick kiss. “So see you later. You too, Jemma,” she added, touching her friend’s shoulder as she passed behind her, tablet under her arm, coffee mug in her hand. “And I’ll think about your idea,” she added with a wink. “Might even improve it a little.” And with that, she was gone, leaving Grant and Jemma alone in the kitchen.

For a very long moment–longer than Skye would have needed to get out of earshot–neither of them spoke; Jemma took another bite from the cereal, but never looked away from Grant, as if she was waiting for him to speak. And after a while he simply gave up, put down his mug, rested a hand on the top of the counter, pinched the bridge of his nose with the other, and said, “ _Fitz_.” It wasn’t a question; it was a resigned statement. Honestly, he shouldn’t have even been surprised.

Jemma put down her spoon. “Don’t be mad at him, it wasn’t his fault,” she said, genuine concern for her partner in her voice. “Well, I mean, it kind of was, after all he left the ring unattended, and I just…”

“You know what?” Grant interrupted her, raising his hand to make her stop talking. “I don’t even want to know. Just tell me: he hasn’t lost it yet, right?”

“Of course not,” Jemma assured him. “I made sure he put it in a good place. You know, after he left it lying around in the lab, where I found it and… I’ll stop talking now,” she said as she noticed Grant’s deepening frown.

“Thank you,” Grant nodded, then walked back to the table with his mug and took a place where Skye had been sitting only minutes before.

“So…” Jemma started cautiously, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away. “When is the big day?”

“Excuse me?” Grant blinked.

“I mean, when are you going to ask her?” Another blink. “Because I need to know.”

“ _You_ need to know?” Grant echoed, his voice rising almost ridiculously at the end of the sentence.

“Well, yes, since, you know, I think–as Skye’s best female friend–it’s my duty to make sure that–“ she started her explanation, but she was cut off mid-sentence by Grant’s strained chuckle. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m just appreciating the irony in my situation,” came the reply as he ran a hand through his hair. “You know, twenty-four hours ago not a soul knew about my… plans on changing my marital status, so to say. I was milling over it for weeks, thinking it through, _talking_ it through with my therapist, finding the perfect ring and buying it without alerting anybody, especially Skye… And now everybody and their brother are nagging me about my next move.”

“Now, I don’t think–“ Jemma started wanting to point out the three of them–Fitz, Coulson and herself–nowhere near constituted everybody, bust she was, once again, interrupted in the middle of the sentence.

“Jemma,” Grant said calmly, putting his hand together as his elbows rested on the table. “I love you, you know that, but please, take a step back!” When she just kept looking at him, slightly confused, he added: “Because, how could I say this? You are not exactly a subtle person.”

“That-that is completely–“ Jemma stuttered, trying to find a decent refutation of that.

“Terribly true?” Grant said, helping her out. “Jemma, Skye told me how that thing went down with Sitwell back in the Hub.”

“That was one time,” she pointed out, raising a single finger, as if it would make her claim stronger.

“…And if not for the _penis shaped lipsticks_ , Skye would have picked on that something is amiss just now. _I_ did. You weren’t nearly as unsuspicious as I bet you think you were.”

 This actually made Jemma shrink back a little, her shoulders falling. “Really?”

Grant couldn’t help his mouth curling into a small smile. “It was painful to watch.”

“Sorry?” Jemma winced.

“It’s okay, I appreciate it, really,” Grant assured her. “And I’m sure Skye’ll be more than happy to have you help with the wedding if she says yes–“

“ _When_ ,” Jemma corrected him.

“ _If_ she says yes,” Grant repeated with a sigh, “but right now, please, just… stay put, okay? Don’t drop hints, don’t try to take her to a spa out of the blue, don’t… I don’t know, leave bridal magazines lying around. Just act like as if you knew nothing. I’d like it to remain a secret, without Skye suspecting a thing, if that’s possible–and without anybody else finding out, for that matter.”

Jemma nodded, honoring his request, but already opening her mouth–she had so many things she wanted to ask! Like, did he had any ideas yet how he was going to propose? (Fitz had told her that Ward hadn’t figured out yet how to do it, but that was _twelve hours ago._ ) Was he planning anything special? And how about the wedding? And the honeymoon? And what should she give them as a wedding gift? (She might have run a little ahead, but that’s how her mind worked). Only she didn’t even get to say a word, because the next moment someone else walked into the common area, making both her and Grant fall silent at once.

“Morning,” May greeted them curtly as she stepped to the fridge.

“Good morning,” came their somewhat tense, I-didn’t-do-anything kind of answer.

May opened the fridge, pulled out a yoghurt, shut the door, and then just stood there for a moment, moving her gaze between the silent Ward and Jemma, as if she could look into their very souls, while they simply stared back at her, not saying a word. Well, Grant couldn’t exactly blame her–their somewhat forced and uncomfortable silence, coupled with Jemma’s wide-eyed expression really wasn’t that convincing.

But then, to his utter surprise, the ever impassive Melinda May smiled slightly.

“You know,” she said, looking at them, amusement clear in her eyes, “you really shouldn’t stop talking about Ward’s proposal on my account.” And with that, she turned to leave.

Jemma looked at Grant; the corner of his eye twitched strangely, but otherwise, he didn’t move a muscle for three whole seconds. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, turned his face towards the ceiling, and said, “I give up.” And then he got up and, his coffee to be damned, left without another word.

To be honest, Jemma couldn’t really blame him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You thought I was joking](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/penis-lipstick_us_5740b505e4b045cc9a712fd9?ir=Weird+News&section=us_weird-news&utm_hp_ref=weird-news)


	4. Ask the Brit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here’s the next chapter, guys, and I hope you’ll enjoy it :)

The next couple of days felt as if the whole universe was out to get him–or at least was actively trying to sabotage his plans.

Whenever Grant happened to have five Skye- and distraction-free minutes to try and think about his grand proposal plans (Jemma might have dubbed them that), somebody was just ought to come up to him and ask how things were going, or pester him with their own, mostly outrageous, ideas (no, he absolutely did not want skywriting, no matter how much Fitz thought it would be fitting). Of course Fitz and Simmons were the most adamant about it–he counted it on the third day, the two of them combined went up to him a total of eight times regarding the matter before dinner–, and even Mack pulled him aside once to wish him luck (how the mechanic learned about it, Grant didn’t even want to know). So by the fifth day he reached the point that he swore if somebody asked him one more time when he was going to propose, the answer would be _never,_ because he was going to kill that person, go to jail, and never get the chance to marry Skye.

And to make matters worse, Coulson had asked him to his office again to inquire about his progress and to offer his help once again, which, on a certain level, Grant even thought was nice of him, but on the other hand it only served to agitate Skye even more–since it was another trip to the director’s office he couldn’t really talk about–, and, with things going on like this, Grant knew that she was bound to get suspicious and sniff out what was happening sooner or later. Which meant that the clock was seriously ticking, and he really had to make a move, the sooner the better, before he blew this whole thing.

The only problem was that he still had absolutely no idea what to do.

***

By the seventh day, Grant could practically feel the noose around his neck. Especially after the previous night, when he had to listen through Skye’s longwinded theory about how Fitz must be planning something for Jemma, because he seemed so nervous all the time–all the while keeping a carefully guarded and neutral face and sometimes adding a noncommittal grunt or a “sure” or an “absolutely” to the conversation.

So he had reached the point when–after having spent an hour in the sole company of the punching bag, who couldn’t provide him with a better solution–he was actually considering going for Coulson’s idea of doing things in the traditional way. Although, he kept thinking in the Playground’s locker room after his post-work out shower, Skye deserved so much more than a clichéd ring-hidden-in-the-dessert approach (she deserved way more than _him_ , period, and he was the luckiest man on Earth that she still wanted to be with him). Also, his mind kept turning back to another reservation of his regarding this approach: the audience. After all, wasn’t proposals supposed to be… intimate? Weddings, as he saw it, were for the friends and family, but a proposal was supposed to be just about them, and he doubted it would be possible in a fully packed restaurant where everybody else would turn to them, watching them hawk-eyed the moment he pulled out the ring.

Maybe he should reserve the whole restaurant?

He only got so far in his train of thought, because the next moment the door of the locker room opened, and Hunter walked in, humming something that sounded suspiciously like _Taylor Swift_ under his breath. He shot a curt, but not unfriendly, greeting to Grant as he reached his locker, which Grant returned, and with that Hunter went on with his business, opening the locker and pulling his gym clothes out, while resuming his humming.

Although they had never been really close, Grant liked the Brit well enough (not counting the first week or so, when Grant had been absolutely convinced that Hunter had a thing for Skye, but that was ancient history). They might not have always seen eye to eye about certain things, but Grant appreciated Hunter’s tenacity, boldness, and unique way of handling things, and, to be honest, he usually found him rather amusing (when he didn’t want to strangle him, that’s it), as his company was a nice change after the cool professionality of specialists he had been used to.

But this did not mean that Hunter’s sudden presence didn’t throw him completely off track, making him unable to go further than the decision that the “restaurant solution” was definitely no way to go. His concern just grew when he noticed that Hunter was sneaking sideway glances at him, always looking away before Grant could have actually caught his eyes, but not quick enough not to notice it; it was as if Hunter wanted to say something to him, but couldn’t decide whether he actually should open his mouth or not.

The third time Grant caught him doing that, he cocked an eyebrow at him, not prompting, but _daring_ him to speak. Hunter let out a long, overly dramatic sigh, tossed his work out shirt to the bench, then turned to Grant, feet planted firmly on the ground, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Alright,” he started, sounding a bit impatient, “what’s going on here? And don’t tell me that nothing, or that it’s _classified_ or _need-to-know_ , because I’m so over that crap.”

Grant felt his eyebrows shot in a most likely very comical way.

“What are you talking about?”

“Whatever is happening here,” Lance snapped. “The thing everybody” he made a sweeping motion with his arms, almost as if everybody at the base was in the room, “seems to be on but me. The thing I see everybody whisper about, and what has had FitzSimmons’ knickers in a bunch for like a week.”

Grant blinked. “You don’t know,” he said, stating, not asking, barely believing what was happening.

“No, that’s what I’m saying! And you know what, mate? It’s getting really frustrating, always getting caught up in these hidden agendas, stumbling upon big S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets I’m not being told, _even though_ I’m supposed to be in the “in” circle by now, and… Why are you laughing?”

Grant really was laughing–it seemed like the only sensible thing to do in this situation. He would had never though that the always noisy and obnoxious mercenary would be basically the last–not counting Skye–person to learn about his plans about proposing Skye, especially since in the last week, to his best knowledge, it had become the hottest gossip at the base.

“Sorry, it’s just…” he told Lance, who was staring at him with wide eyes, mouth slightly open. Grant sighed, run his hand through his hair, then sat down on the bench and cleared his throat. “There are no hidden agendas or big S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets,” he assured Hunter. “It’s just…” He paused, then decided that he might as well tell Hunter. “I want to propose to Skye. I wanted to do it in secret, but then things went in a way that I had to come clean to Coulson, and then had to bring in Fitz, and he told Simmons, and then… Well, I guess you can figure out the rest.”

Hunter’s stance relaxed right away, his shoulders falling slightly forward as he let his arms fall to his sides. “Hm,” he said, cleared his throat, and then went again, “hm…” Then shook his head, and said, “You are a moron.” And with that, he turned back to his locker.

Grant let out a surprised chuckle in spite of himself.

“Excuse me, what?” he asked.

Hunter glanced at him from behind his locker’s door, cocking an eyebrow at him. “You heard it right–you are a moron. An absolute, total moron. Why would you want to destroy a completely good relationship with marriage? Honestly, mate, there are no stories that start with a marriage and end up with a happy ending.”

Grant snorted and felt as his mouth pulled into an awkward grin.

“I hate to contradict you, Hunter,” he really didn’t, “but I’m pretty sure that in most stories–fairytales and the like–the whole point is marriage. You know, the knight rescues the princess, they marry, and live happily ever after?” (Grant couldn’t believe they were actually talking about this.)

Hunter shut his locker’s door, and made a little indignant noise that sounded almost like a chuckle.

“Bah, humbug,” he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Lies and sugarcoating. But really– _why_?” He looked pointedly at Grant. “I know for fact that you re tight with Skye as it is, you are all over each other all the time. Honestly, sometimes it is sickening to watch. Not to mention that I bet that you are as terrified as me of Coulson raiding the SUV’s with a black light.” he said, making Grant shiver. He really did not want to think about how Hunter and Bobbi jumped each other’s bones in the S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV’s, and he hoped the feeling was mutual. Although, on the other hand, the Brit was painfully right. “Going at each other like bunnies…” Hunter added, muttering under his breath, shaking his head. “So, anyway, why would you destroy a completely good and well-functioning relationship with such a fickle thing as marriage? Which, in itself, is a stupid and outdated institution? I just don’t understand you, mate. You are a reasonable guy, you are not stupid–why would you sprint towards your doom willingly?”

Grant looked pointedly at Hunter, and, in a completely level voice, said, “You married Bobbi.”

Hunter froze for a moment, then blinked at him, once, twice. “That…” he started, then cleared his throat and yanked his T-shirt off. “That was a momentary lapse of judgement. Something I have regretted about a million times ever since. And something to which I lost my car, my favorite gun, my nerves, my dignity…”

Grant’s lips pulled into a smug smirk. “You’d marry her again, today, if she asked.”

Now that made Lance shut up. He gaped at Grant for a moment, then, reaching for his gym shirt again, said, “That’s up to debate, and I’ll vehemently deny it at court. And anyway, we were talking about you.”

Grant let out a loud laugh, and somehow this seemed to close the topic, at least for a while, as the two men went on with their business. But a couple of seconds later Grant found himself turning to Lance once again, unable to keep himself from asking him about one thing.

“Speaking of Bobbi,” he started, and hearing him Lance stopped tying his shoes and looked up at him with a questioning gaze. “How did _you_ propose to her?”

The slow grin that spread on Hunter’s face told Grant that he wasn’t so anti-marriage as he acted to be.

“Oh, that is a fun story!” he smirked, leaning back a little on the bench. “But,” he pointed out before getting started on how it went down, “to my defense, it wasn’t a premediated act. Also, if it was, I wouldn’t have fretted over it like you do. Pathetic,” he mumbled the last word under his breath, then cleared his throat, “Anyway, it happened in Pakistan. We were on a mission, going against… somebody. I’ll be damned if I remember. It was a messy job. So it was some bad guys. Some locals, I guess, but it could have been Hydra.” He paused, thinking something through. “Even though thinking about it now, _we_ might have been Hydra. But, moving on, it wasn’t your fancy, champagne-sipping undercover job–it was the kind with heavy gunfire and a trip to the dentist afterwards. But we got through it–finished the job, got out alive, all the nine yards. Then, still high on adrenalin, we went to this hotel, you know, that wacky roadside kind with a goat at the front of the building, got a room and… well, things happened. You know what I mean,” he winked at Grant, who groaned. “Anyway, I had a moment of weakness–I wasn’t thinking clearly–, exhausted, sore, running on fumes and all, and I just blurted it out, tangled in the sheets. And Bobbi must have had her mind misplaced for a moment, too, because she said yes.” Hunter shrugged. “And so we were engaged, no fanfare. But,” he added after a moment, scratching his chin, “to be honest, it was rather fitting. I mean, our whole relationship started with bullets and sex, so I guess it’s only right the whole proposal-business went down the same way. Hey, mate, alright you alright?” he asked, as he saw Grant suddenly jump up from the bench.

Oh, he was better than alright; he was great. There was something in what Hunter said–about how his proposal to Bobbi had recalled the very start of their relationship–that suddenly made everything click in his head, and now he knew exactly what he had to do. And this realization came with a surge of nervous energy, something making him restless, not letting him to sit idle for a moment longer–he had to act _now_.

“I’m splendid,” he told the staring Lance as he pulled on his shirt in haste, already on his way towards the door. “It’s just… I have to talk to Fitz and Simmons, right now. See you later, and thank you!”

And then he was out of the room before Hunter could have asked what he was thanking him for.

***

Despite the still relatively early hour, Grant managed to round up Fitz and Simmons in a record time, herding the two scientists into a secluded part of the base to be able to talk with them in private, where, not even caring about the fact that Fitz still seemed to have a problem with keeping his eyes open, he got to the topic right away.

“It’s about the proposal,” he said, and, hearing it, Jemma brightened up right away.

“Oh, good thing you are bringing it up, I wanted to talk with you about it anyway–I wanted to remind you not to forget to get down on one knee. Really, don’t. It’s very symbolic, and romantic, and I bet Skye’d–” Grant raised his hand to make her stop talking, then turned to Fitz.

“I’ll need the ring,” he told the Scot, then looked at both scientists. “And I’ll need your help.” He grinned nervously in spite of himself. “It’s going down today.”

(He could have waited, really, it wasn’t like he was on a deadline, at least not strictly speaking; but he didn’t want to wait a second. Now that he knew the _how_ , he was too excited to hit the brakes. He just wanted to see that ring on Skye’s finger too much.)

Two pairs of wide eyes looked back at him in the moment of silence that followed his words, then FitzSimmons started speaking at the same time.

“It was bloody time, really…”

“Oh, this is so exciting!”

“Skye’s gonna be so happy…”

 “What do you need help with?”

“Maybe you should shave before it–just a suggestion…”

Slightly overwhelmed, but nonetheless glad for his friends’ enthusiasm, Grant formed a T with his hands, willing them to stop talking and let him speak. When they finally quieted, he took a deep breath.

“First of all, I’ll need candles,” he said as Jemma pulled her phone from her pocket, presumably to take notes.

“What kind of candles?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Grant shook his head. “Whatever you can find or get. Just get a lot, will you?” Jemma nodded, assuring him that it’d be done, not even lifting her eyes from the screen–while Fitz were looking over her shoulder to see what she was typing. “And maybe petals… Rose petals? Can we get that this time of the year?”

“It can be done,” the answer, surprisingly, came from Fitz.

“Great. And I’ll need somebody to distract Skye for an hour or two, so she won’t stumble upon it early. But…” He looked at the overly eager scientists who looked back at him, waiting. They really still weren’t the best at covert operations, so to say. “But maybe I’ll ask somebody else to do that–you just get the candles and the flowers. Let’s say we’ll meet up again…” he glanced at his watch, “…in six hours. Does that work for you?”

“Sure,” Fitz nodded, speaking for both of them. “But what have you got planned?”

Grant, already anxious to be on his way to make sure everything would go down smoothly, was just turning to leave, but then stopped, and looked at Fitz and Simmons.

“Funny thing is, it was actually Hunter who gave me the idea,” he said, smirking. “I’ll tell you all about later, I promise, but now I have to go and… get ready.” And true, to his word, he was already walking away.

“Wait!” Jemma called after him. “Where should we meet?”

Grant stopped and looked back at them. “At the Bus,” he said, then, with a spring in his step, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don’t remember if it was addressed how the Huntingbird proposal went down, so I might have taken some liberties with that.


	5. The Grand Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, finally, the end of this story, guys–I’m saying “finally” because it started off as a stray idea for a one-shot on a Saturday night, and then it somehow turned into a month-long, 10K+ word project. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the ride and that I managed to live up to your expectations with this last chapter. Happy reading!

Ten hours later Grant stood in the Bus, freshly changed and shaved, looking at the scene in front of him, and he felt surprisingly… _good_ about this. As strange as it was–especially considering the previous week–, everything went down without a hitch so far, everybody who had pitched in during the preparations proved to be _actually productive_ , and everything seemed perfect: the place was set, and it was even better than he had imagined it, Skye, not suspecting a thing, was aptly distracted, and everybody, really everybody promised to stay out of the way and not to ruin the moment with their near-destructive curiosity and misguided helpfulness. Everything was ready. It was almost as if, once the wheels had been set into motion, there was nothing that could have stopped him.

As if it was _meant_ to happen.

Grant pulled the ring box from his pocket–Fitz had, thankfully, managed not to lose it, after all, although Grant had a feeling he had to thank Jemma for that–, turned it around in his fingers, then popped the lid, and watched as the center diamond caught the light.

That was it. It was _the_ moment.

With pleasantly buzzing excitement, mixed with a little anxiety, spreading in his veins, reaching the very tips of his fingers, he closed the box, slid it back to his pocket, then pulled out his phone, and, taking a deep breath, he sent a quick text to Skye.

_Let the curtain rise._

* * *

 

Skye groaned in frustration as she typed in yet another line of code, stripping off another layer of the program. Coulson had called her to his office _urgently_ , because the wall screen had been “acting up”–A.C.’s words, not hers–, and he needed it fixed, like, yesterday. Only she had been at it for nearly two hours now, and had found absolutely _nothing_ wrong, not even a bug (well, a fly, yes, but that was in the room, not in the code), no matter how Coulson insisted that something was wrong and that she only needed to look deeper.

So she looked, deeper and deeper, but there was still nothing wrong there, so she was getting closer and closer by the minute to A, rip out all of her hair in sheer frustration, or B, give Coulson a crash course on using the screen, because apparently he didn’t know how, and so he made the program do things it wasn’t supposed to do, what, of course, he perceived as a glitch or malfunction or whatever.

But still–Coulson was her boss, and she really respected the guy–loved, even–, so she took a deep breath and resumed typing. She’d just try this one last approach–and maybe one more, she hadn’t tried that one yet–, but if neither worked and she still found nothing to be repaired, she was _so_ going to give Coulson a piece of her mind about the proper use of high-tech gadgets (maybe with some snide remarks added about older guys and newer technology, but that really depended on how many functioning nerves she had left by the time she finished here).

That moment–just as she realized that she might have been approaching the whole problem wrong the whole time–her cell phone chimed, signaling an incoming message. Skye finished the line of code she was working on, then, stretching her fingers, she reached for the phone where it had been sitting on the desk, and smiled softly the moment she saw who sent the message–it was from Grant. But her smile soon turned into a confused frown as she unlocked the screen and saw the only three-word message:

_Open the door._

Her eyebrows pulled together, she looked at the door of Coulson’s office, then back at the cell, but only those three same words looked back at her–no explanation or anything. Sighing, she typed a quick reply:

_Why?_

She stared at her phone for a long moment before it buzzed again with his reply, but instead of an explanation, it was just the same three words flashing on her screen again: _Open the door._

Deciding that it was most likely just a glitch in his phone (she made a mental note to ask about it in person later, and take a look at it), or that he was playing a game with her (less likely), or that his phone was hijacked by some _very funny_ person on the base (more likely, although she wouldn’t have switched places with the guy once Grant found him), she just sighed, and replied:

_Can’t. Working :(_

She put her phone back down, and was just about to continue her big investigation into the mysterious glitch or virus or _code-monster_ that had taken over Coulson’s precious screen, when it chimed again. She opened the message, expecting something akin to an explanation, but it was just a single word there: _Please_. Then the next moment, before she could have typed in anything, a new message appeared on the screen: _Trust me._

She stared at the phone for a long moment, one eyebrow cocked in confusion, then she shrugged, locked the screen and slipped the cell into her pocket–whatever was going on, Grant (or whoever had his phone) seemed pretty insistent that she opened that door, so why not go along with it? Worst case scenario, she’d tell Coulson that she couldn’t find anything wrong with the wall screen two minutes later than she originally planned. So she rose from her seat, walked over to the door, and pulled it open.

At first she didn’t see a thing, just the empty, dimly lit hallway–but then as she reached for her phone to let Grant know that she had _opened the damn door_ , her eyes fell on the ground, and she saw it.

Rose petals, strewn all over the worn floor, starting from the door of the office, leading down the corridor towards the staircase to the common area.

Her heart fluttering just a little bit faster and smirking to herself, she pulled her phone from her pocket, and sent Grant a completely different message than she had intended to fifteen seconds ago:

_What’s going on here, Casanova?_

She only needed to wait a couple of seconds for his reply: _Just follow the trail._

She could almost see his half-smug, half-dorky grin in front of her as she put away her phone once again, closed the door of Coulson’s office behind her (the wall screen to be damned), and made her way down the corridor, following the trail of the delicate petals.

It led her down the staircase, through the–suspiciously empty and dimly-lit–common area, then down the hallway by the lab, to the hangar door. The trail continued beyond the door–the petals light flecks against the dark concrete floor–, into the eerily empty and dark hangar, where the only light source seemed to come from beyond the Bus’s lowered ramp. Not even caring about the petals anymore, she headed straight for the Bus, quickening her steps a little, eager to find out what was this about.

The cargo bay, even though bright next to the darkness of the hangar, was still sparsely lit, but it still took her breath away–all the light inside came solely from the fairy lights wrapped around the punching bag (that was hanging freely for some reason, even though she couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had used it, now that they had the base’s fully equipped gym at hand) and the railings of the spiral staircase. Almost tentatively, she placed her hand on the metal of the railing, and, her heart beating wild in her chest, she stepped on the first step.

She just couldn’t shake the feeling, the one that had been growing inside of her even since she first spotted the petals, that something big was going on, only she didn’t want to verbalize it, or even let it to take a coherent form in her mind. Not yet.

Reaching the top of the staircase, from where she could see the light spilling out from the main deck of the Bus, she stopped for a moment, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then, with a hint of a smile on her lips, she stepped inside.

The clutter–the crates and boxes and all–that had accumulated in the common area now that they hadn’t been using it daily, had been cleared away, so it almost felt like on that very first day when she stepped onto the plane with a box in her hand a bag hanging from her shoulder, not knowing yet that she was just about to take on a journey of a lifetime with the people she would soon call her family, but being excited nonetheless. Only the light was different–instead of the sunlight streaming through the cabin windows, this time the lounge was lit by dozens and dozens of candles of all shapes and sizes–and, based on the whirlwind of scents in the air, in an assortment of scents–, their tiny, flickering flames illuminating the room.

And he was there, waiting for her by the table at the window, only a couple of steps away from her, wearing a dark button-down and a smile. Her feet carried her towards him almost instinctively.

“Hi,” she said with a smile, her voice softer than intended; there was something in the moment that made her want to be gentle and soft-spoken. “This is really… beautiful. What’s the occasion?”

She took her hand in both of his as she reached him, raised it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “Sit, please?” he said in lieu of answering her question. Still holding onto her hand he led her to one of the armchairs by the wall, and helped her sit with a grace that almost reminded her of a Victorian gentleman. Once she was seated, he sat down as well, in the other chair on the opposite side of the small table.

For a long moment neither of the spoke; they just watched the other, her gaze fixed on his eyes, as the light from the flame of the single candle placed on the table danced in his irises, while he gazed back at her, mapping the lines of her face. One corner of her mouth pulling into a smile, she rested her chin in one hand, while drawing a finger through the flame of the candle, playing with the fire, close enough that it left a thin layer of soot on the tip of her finger, but not close enough for it to hurt. “So…?”

He cleared his throat and straightened his back a little.

“I have been thinking,” he started, placing his hand, palm up, on the table. She took the hint, and placed her own hand into it. He wrapped his fingers–long and graceful and so strong–around it right away, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. “And I realized…” he took a deep breath, looking around the room. “I realized that this is where we really started.”

She followed his gaze; he was right, of course–it didn’t slip her notice, giving her a strange feeling of déjà vu, that she was sitting right where she had sat when they first played battleship together, when he first let her take a glimpse beneath his armor. And to her left there was the coffee table she had sat on with a bottle of scotch in her hand, wanting to make amends with him after their rough start. And further ahead of her, there lay the command center, where they had first started repairing the bridge between them after her betrayal. And so, so many other memories surrounded them in this place, echoes of laughter and tears and whispered words.

“That’s true,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“And… there’s more to it.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “This is where you helped me to find myself.” He must have seen her wanting to say something–argue that she wasn’t helping him, that she was _merely there_ , and that it was all him overcoming the shadows that had loomed over him–, because he quickly continued, beating her to it. “Please, just let me say it. You know I’m not the greatest with words, and if you interrupt me now, I might never be able tell what I want, and I need you to hear this.” Sensing the raw and very real need behind his words, and the tears that were strangely pricking her eyes, she simply nodded, keeping her lips sealed.

“Remember all the things you called me in the early days? Robot, and…”

“Terminator,” she quipped in, feeling like she could now. “And T-1000.”

He smiled a little wider at her words, his eyes wandering to the tabletop for a moment.

“Yes, and Tin-Man, if I remember well,” he said.

“Yeah,” she chuckled, “that too.”

“But what I mean to say with this–you were not far from the truth.” He took a deep breath. “When I first got here, although I didn’t really know it yet–or just wasn’t willing to acknowledge it–, I was barely more than a shell. I was existing, _surviving_ , not living. And then you came into my life, like a hurricane, wreaking havoc and turning everything upside down.”

She let out a nervous chuckle. “I was that bad, wasn’t I?”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he said, “Even worse than that. But” he continued “that was exactly what I needed. You see, before I met you, I followed another man’s goals, and hadn’t even though beyond that–who I was and what I wanted–, and somehow I was content with that, even though there was this hollow feeling inside of me that something was missing. But then I met you and…” He trailed off.  There was something in his eyes as he watched her, something that was making her want to hold him and kiss all of the pain of his past away. “And you made me see that there was more to life. That it was okay to want more, to want to be my own person–to want colors and laughter and friends and a family. That attachments are not weaknesses and that not everything fits into a neat little box. You helped me to become the man I’m today, helped me when the whole world was against me and when I had to fight my own demons, and Skye… You are the one who made me realize who I really wanted to be. And that person is…” He let go of her hand, stood from his seat and stepped in front of her, turning her chair slightly towards him, then went down to one knee on the carpet at her feet.

“ _Oh, my God…_ ” she whispered barely audibly, her hand flying to her chest as she grinned and cried at the same time.

 _Of course_ she knew this was coming–deep down she had known the moment she had stepped into the candle-lit lounge. Because there was only a few reasons one’s boyfriend would do such things as leaving a trail of rose petals to lead her to a very romantically set up place that also has a personal significance to them.

And suddenly everything else made sense, everything that had bothered her the previous week–his mysterious trips to Coulson’s office, Jemma’s sudden need for a girls’ day out, Fitz’s awkwardness–and, of course, there was nothing wrong with Coulson’s wall screen. This is what had been going on all along, Grant planning this and everybody else helping him, while trying to keep her in the dark–which, technically, they had managed to do.

“That person is,” he repeated, now kneeling in front of her, pulling her back to the present, “whoever I’m with you. Because you make me aspire to be a good man, and make me see beauty, and make me believe that the world is actually a wonderful place–because I love you, you are the love of my life, and it might be selfish of me, but I never want to let you go. So I need to ask this.” He reached for his pocket and pulled out something small and square from it, and she _knew_ what it was, even though she barely saw it–all she saw was his face, smiling up at her. “Skye With-No-Last-Name, would you do one more crazy and reckless thing, and spend your life with me? Will you marry me?”

He barely had the question out–he hadn’t even have time to open the ring box yet–, she was already flying out of her chair, arms around his neck, knocking him to the ground, his leg, no doubt, twisted awkwardly under him, kissing him senseless through her tears.

“Yes, yes, _oh, yes_ ,” she chanted between kisses, her legs at either side of his waist, holding his face in both hands, foreheads touching. “A thousand times yes.”

It took him a while to speak after that–overwhelmed by her answer, all he could do for a minute or two was to kiss her, his hand buried in her hair, and smile and laugh, because he could scarcely believe that, after all those nightmarish years, it suddenly felt like he was living in a dream (and if he was, he never wanted to wake up).

He only came to his senses when air had become a necessity, so he had to break the kiss. Trying to catch his breath and still holding her close, he reached for the ring box that had been knocked out of his hand, and was now lying on the carpet next to him.

“I think,” he said, panting a little, pulling away from her just so he could look into her eyes, “there’s one more thing we need to do to make it official.” And with that, he popped the box open, took out the ring, and took her hand.

She watched with glittering eyes and he gently held her left hand, and slowly slipped the delicate ring on her finger. Once it was on, she took her own hand, and lifted it to her eyes to take a closer look at the ring–it was breathtaking, of course (like she would have expected anything less), speaking both of his refined taste and how well he knew her.

She must have taken too much time marveling at the ring– _her ring_ –, because soon she heard him clear his throat.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it–we can go and–“ She didn’t let him finish the sentence–instead, she attacked his lips again.

“It’s perfect,” she said once the kiss ended, resting her forehead against his. “Everything was perfect, my dear _fiancé_ ,” she added with a smirk.

“Wow,” he breathed, lips instinctively looking for hers. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing that.”

“Then I guess I’ll be saying it a lot, just to test your theory,” she replied, giving him a teasing peck on the lips before he claimed her mouth again.

“Shouldn’t we…” she started when she came up for air a little while later, her lips kiss-swollen, her cheeks flushed, her heart beating fast, her new ring still pleasantly heavy on her finger. “Shouldn’t we go down, tell the team? They must be going nuts with anticipation,” she said, drawing a finger along his chest.

“No,” he replied with a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes as he slid a hand into her locks and pulled her back down on top of him. “They played with my nerves for a whole week. It’s time for a little payback.”

(They didn’t emerge from the Bus for nearly two hours.)

**Author's Note:**

> I actually checked it, and a Tiffany’s ring really starts from about 30K. Ouch.


End file.
